Hatred
by Daughter of the North
Summary: The Hunger Games are a sick and twisted invention of Snow. You root for your favorites, you cry when they die...but do you pause when those you despised are killed? Sometimes children have the clearest view of things. A teens point of view of the Games, and of Clove.


**Hey. This is a peace-offering, since it is taking so long for _Dead Hearts_ to update. My lack of wi-fi tends to jam things up. This will probably be edited eventually...but for now, I hope it tides you over:)**

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_Sitting round feeling far away; s__o far away but I can feel the debris._

_- Good People by Jack Johnson_

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The Mayor of our district seems to see this time of year as a holiday, and releases all school children for the duration of the Games. Maybe he thinks that we actually see it as a holiday, and the teachers don't complain. No one can pay attention in class when there are empty seats in the room. It is hard to listen when your desk partner is dying of an infection miles away on television. Instead, we are allowed to stay at home to either watch or wait it out.

It is hard to not pay attention. The projector is always on, and the house is too small to escape the sounds; Caesars voice rings continuously and the shouts, screams and curses that punctuate him mar the house with their intensity. Some viewing is mandated every day, but usually I attempted to spend as much time outside as possible.

One of the worst things in the world is watching the Hunger Games, I think. I mean, besides being _in_ the Hunger Games.

This year the weather is terrible. Lightening, thunder, some flooding...no way my mother was allowing me to spend my life outside until only one remains. Instead, I attempt to whittle, but I don't get very far. The Games draw me in; I eventually end up rooting for our Tributes, and inevitably are haunted when they do not return. It is like watching the spotters tumble down with trees. You know how it will end, but you watch them fall helplessly, waiting for the impact, hoping beyond logic that they will be able to stand and walk it off.

They never do.

It had been on for days. Too many days. I hate it; when the projector is on, I cannot concentrate on anything except Caesar voice and the sounds of screams and fighting. Even though I feel blessed that I have managed to beat the odds one more year, the Games and their brutality still manages to make me feel numb and lost. How could anyone do that to another human? I am not one to have nightmares, but before I fall asleep, I imagine competitors lurking about my house, attempting to kill me. I see my friends and family there too. Usually, the tribute that scares me the most dominates this hazy time in my evenings, when I hover between sleep and wakefulness.

I can only scratch the surface of the screams that must echo through Victors Village if _this_ mild form of violence on the other side of the screen has such an adverse effect on me.

This year, my terror is Clove. She is a monster from Two, throwing knives with nonchalance that is almost charming. She manages to act engaging and charismatic while still seeming slightly on the verge on insanity. Of course, many perfectly normal people in the Hunger Games go insane; being in that situation will do that to you. But Clove is a Career, and she is not someone I am prone to sympathize with to begin with. I am content to believe in my head that she is a psychopath because she killed the boy from our District. I had not known him, but she had never even stopped to ponder that she was ending a life afterwords. She is as cold-blooded as the rest of the Careers always are.

I do not want her to win.

Maybe it is the knife throwing that unnerves me. She can kill, and you would never see it coming. At least Cato has to run at you and get within several feet. Clove could just sit in a tree and win.

But a feast has been called. Clove and Cato will be there, because they have to get armor to survive the girl from Twelve's arrows to win. The feast is mandatory to watch. They always want us to see the bloodiest parts.

So I sit and cover my ears and try not to pay attention to the sound of the announcer rambling on about medicine and chain mail. But I can't; not really. I am as drawn to the story as a moth is to a flame, even though I am equal parts sickened by myself and horrified by what is sure to be bloody and haunting images of limbs, bloody bodies and last breaths.

The girl from five gets her stuff and no one follows her as she sprints off into the woods. Maybe she isn't I threat. She is weaponless. I don't really care; I am just glued to the screen. I am so nervous that I barely register Matilda, my little sister, coming to settle in my lap.

"This is going to be scary," I warn her, while the announcers dissect the locations of the Tributes.

She looks at me with big eyes. "Why?"

I sigh. She isn't old enough to understand yet why this is all going on. It is the first year she has ever even watched it. She never seems fazed, or even to care. My sister just sits on the floor, playing with the cat we keep around to kill mice, glancing up when mom gives a gasp, or my brother curses and storms out, or my father kisses her to remind himself that she is still here. She hasn't actually seen a death, because mom will attempt to distract her. Unsure of how to warn her gently, I say "Because people are going to die."

Her eyes get wide. "If you know that, why don't you stop it?" she asks, obviously confused.

"It isn't that simple," I mean to continue, but then I hear Caesar.

"Oh, look at this...we may have our first combat. It looks to me like Katniss is unaware of Cloves-oh my, was that I hit?!"

I look up, and clutch Matilda.

"Why are they fighting?" she turns her face towards me, and I can see the show reflecting in her eyes.

"Because it is the Hunger Games!" I snap, annoyed. I am having a hard time following what is going on even without her bugging me. It looks like Katniss shot, but she missed. My heart is racing, and I try to look away, but each grunt and squeal makes me turn to look back. I feel duty bound to watch the death, because I am still safely in my house, and Katniss is not.

Katniss. She volunteered for her sister. I shiver. Would I be that brave? I don't think so. I guess I had hoped she would win. A girl that brave deserves it. But the Hunger Games aren't known for fairness. She is going to be another kill tallied up to Clove. Arrows aren't so good at close range.

"Who is the Victor?" Matilda asks.

"WE DON'T KNOW YET!" I explode, glaring at her. I am on edge; every fight makes me skittish, and her questions are annoying me, even though they do momentarily distract me from the scene unfolding.

The two are rolling on the ground near the Cornucopia. "Why are they fighting?" Matilda asks again, "Did the other girl do something bad?"

I can hear Clove talking. She is on top of Katniss, taunting her. I know this is going to be bloody, gory. I begin to wish that Clove would've killed Katniss with that first knife, because she wouldn't suffered. Now she will. "Look away," I command Matilda.

"Why?"

Then I see an aerial shot. Thresh is approaching. I shudder and close my eyes, imagining the brutality that will unfold. I grab her head and cover her eyes and ears to the best of my ability in my mother's absence. I squinch my face up so all I can see of the image is contorted and fuzzy. That way, I'll know when it is over, but I won't have to see the details.

Caesar keeps talking. "Oh, this will be good. Do you think Thresh will let them play it out, or kill them both? He could easily."

"I'm not so sure Clove won't just hurl a knife in his direction. I could see her coming out of this fight on top. She does have Cato-"

"Do we know where Cato is?" Caesar interprets, pointing a finger towards the screen. "I don't see him."

"Did she just mention Rue? Oh, look at Thresh's face! This is-WOW!"

The next moments happen so rapid fire I do not have time to react besides fully opening my eyes. Thresh kills Clove, then leaves Katniss to run off on her own, alive. Cesar is babbling on about shock and "a love for Rue that is endearing" and Cato is crying, of all things. I sit, staring at the replays while they rehash the last seconds.

Only then do I understand that Matilda had seen everything. Obviously my hands had fallen. She turns to face me. "Why is she hurt?" Tears are running down her face as she looks at me.

"Because they got in a battle," I mumble, to surprised by this turn in events to do much to pad my words.

"But-but," Matilda starts sobbing. "I want her to get better! Maybe I'll write her a get well card!"

"She just got a little cut. I'm sure she'll be fine."

"No," she mumbles, "They picked her up," she looks at me hopefully, "Maybe they are taking her to a doctor?"

Suddenly, I understand that she wants _Clove_ to be alive. I look at her in confusion. "Matilda, she is the one that killed that lizard you liked," I mutter after a silence, finding nothing else to say that would explain to her why I justified her death.

She looks at me, her face now red. "She was hungry; it was like when daddy kills squirrels!"

I don't point out that she wasn't hungry. Or that her death sort of avenged our tribute. Or that she has been trained to slaughter children practically since the cradle. "Matilda, it's the Hunger Games."

Matilda buries her face in my neck. "She looked like you."

And then I understand why she is so upset. To her, Clove wasn't a Career. She wasn't a nightmare, or a monster, or a psychopath. Clove was a girl my age. To my little sister, the difference between she and I was minimal. Matilda barely understood death, and she saw Clove and I as the same.

And Clove was dead. So, what was stopping me from dying next year?

"Oh Matilda..." I whisper, "I know; the Games are scary," but in my head I feel shame burning down my neck. How is it that I had managed to hate a girl who was forced into the arena that same way every other Tribute was? She did awful things, yes, but didn't every Tribute? She was, at the heart of things, just a teenage girl.

I sit up late tonight. I see Clove, but I see her body, lying on the ground, staring at the wall. She was like me. I, just another teenage girl, was able to sit and be _happy _about her death. I hated her. I How is that better than me throwing the knives? Clove was just a girl, cursed to the Hunger Games by the Capitol.

I no longer hate and fear her. Instead, I fear the man who was in control of her life, because he is also in control of mine. I am just like Clove.

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**Tell me your thoughts; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I don't mind constructive critism. Any ideas for one shots and/or stories? I'm always looking for inspiration!**


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